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So, I finally got a piece of this 'verse to work for me. A very short piece, but howandever. This is Madadrian, probably the most short-changed character in this world, at a pivotal moment.
Title: Rings and Princes
Rating: PG-13
Universe: Southwark
Characters/Pairings: Madadrian, Arien
Summary: The difference between soldier-princes and puppet kings
Wordcount: 918
Warnings/Notes: There is an overview post of this universe here. This story might actually make more sense if you don't read it, though. *grins sheepishly*
Claimer: All mine
Title: Rings and Princes
Rating: PG-13
Universe: Southwark
Characters/Pairings: Madadrian, Arien
Summary: The difference between soldier-princes and puppet kings
Wordcount: 918
Warnings/Notes: There is an overview post of this universe here. This story might actually make more sense if you don't read it, though. *grins sheepishly*
Claimer: All mine
Rings and Princes
The ring sat silently in his hand, mute accusation. Escaped at last to the King's antechamber, freed of the demands of audience for the moment, at least, Madadrian stared at it. For a long, long minute, while the memory of the debacle in the Audience Chamber settled into his mind, he stared at that ring.
Not the ring of kings, really. Not the ring of an elven prince. Not under usual circumstances, anyway. Oh, it was old, expensive. Thick, heavy gold, around a stone the size of a knuckle joint, rich and deep and clouded green. And well-crafted, reasonably so. The etchings in the stone, the oak-leaf signet, were beautifully done, not crude, though not the best of the best. But still. Still, it was not a prince's ring.
It was too battered, for that. This was a ring that had seen too much activity, too many battles. Scratched, scarred across one corner of the stone, a portion of the filigreed setting battered flat. Some sad remaining glints of gold inside the signet etching revealed the inset long since knocked loose. If this ring had been ceremonial, once upon its time, if it had been cared for and set aside for the use of kings ... that time was long gone. Even without the faint flecks of dried blood, product of a far more recent encounter, it was obvious this was a ring worn through hardship, a ring worn through physical work, through battle, through all those things kings, or at least the rings of kings, were supposed to be protected from.
The battered ring of a lesser prince, that was what he held. In theory. The ring of a fallen lordling, distant from the throne, relegated to a lord of the sword. That's what you would think, perhaps. Just to look at it. That's what you might see, if you did not know.
If you did, if you knew ...
If you knew, then this ring was something else. It, like its owner, was the last remnant of a fallen kingship. Of a murdered kingship. A lesser ring, a lesser prince, but the only one now remaining, the rest lost that bloody night eight years ago with the start of his father's war. A ring worn through hardship, through eight years of running, of being hunted, of survival and battle and a war of desperate attrition in the northern forests. A ring for a prince who had fought for his people to the last, the very last, a ring that only now sat in Madadrian's hand because that prince had fallen for them, and been brought before his enemies in chains.
A ring, perhaps, of a kingship earned, rather than handed down from a father long since corrupted and lost to his people's needs. A ring of a prince deserving, more than some puppet king, there only by virtue of his blood.
A ring of a better king than he, perhaps?
For a moment, he stared at it. While the echoes of his court's mockery of a fallen prince died slowly around him. While the image of that proud figure, feet bound to deny him even the dignity of walking before this court that wanted his death, settled in his mind. While the surge of raw revulsion, not for the man, but for his treatment, ebbed uneasily in his chest. For a moment, while he fought for some semblance of calm, of rationality, Madadrian stared at that ring, sitting mute and accusing in his palm.
Then, very gently, he closed his hand around it. Very gently, he curled his hand, soft and prematurely aged, into a protective fist, around that shattered kingship.
He was not his father. He was not Mad King Adrian, whose hatred had torn apart a kingdom, slaughtered a royal family, hunted the desperate remnants through eight years of a war that crippled not only his supposed enemies, but his own people, his own kingdom, now desperately balanced between two inimical and greedy powers. He was not his father, whose hatred had done that.
He was a puppet king, playing games between empires and kingdoms, tugged into place by foreign generals and the sly, sneering demands of his own court, oblivious as they maneuvered themselves further and further into ruin. He was a puppet king with a shining, ceremonial crown, and rings that bore no wounds nor signs of wear. He was a puppet king, whose blood bought him a dubious kingship without ever having to be shed.
He was a puppet king. But he did not have to be.
And the first thing, he thought, the first thing he should fix, of this ruin his father had made, was the mockery of a fallen prince, and the indignity of a death, a murder eight years belated, about to be met in chains.
Slowly, carefully, with another prince's ring tucked gently in his hand, Madadrian reached up. Southwark's king, no matter what his court might think, no matter the wishes of foreign power, he reached up, and lifted the shining circlet from his head. He looked at it, for a long minute, this pampered, ceremonial, useless thing. This thing that meant nothing, until he had his kingdom back, until he'd fought it free of the ruin his father had sent it to. He looked at his crown, in the one hand, and the ring, in the other.
And then, with an odd feeling of hilarity, he stood, dropping the crown behind him, and went to find a prince he owed, at the very least, the return of his ring.
A/N: Random factlet, but in my head the green stone in the signet ring is nephrite jade. Which, according to yourgemologist.com is one of the toughest, most durable stones out there. *grins faintly* Occasionally, I like looking up gems and jewels. Also? It took me forever to remember that the technique for creating metalwork patterns with wire was called filigree. Heh.
The ring sat silently in his hand, mute accusation. Escaped at last to the King's antechamber, freed of the demands of audience for the moment, at least, Madadrian stared at it. For a long, long minute, while the memory of the debacle in the Audience Chamber settled into his mind, he stared at that ring.
Not the ring of kings, really. Not the ring of an elven prince. Not under usual circumstances, anyway. Oh, it was old, expensive. Thick, heavy gold, around a stone the size of a knuckle joint, rich and deep and clouded green. And well-crafted, reasonably so. The etchings in the stone, the oak-leaf signet, were beautifully done, not crude, though not the best of the best. But still. Still, it was not a prince's ring.
It was too battered, for that. This was a ring that had seen too much activity, too many battles. Scratched, scarred across one corner of the stone, a portion of the filigreed setting battered flat. Some sad remaining glints of gold inside the signet etching revealed the inset long since knocked loose. If this ring had been ceremonial, once upon its time, if it had been cared for and set aside for the use of kings ... that time was long gone. Even without the faint flecks of dried blood, product of a far more recent encounter, it was obvious this was a ring worn through hardship, a ring worn through physical work, through battle, through all those things kings, or at least the rings of kings, were supposed to be protected from.
The battered ring of a lesser prince, that was what he held. In theory. The ring of a fallen lordling, distant from the throne, relegated to a lord of the sword. That's what you would think, perhaps. Just to look at it. That's what you might see, if you did not know.
If you did, if you knew ...
If you knew, then this ring was something else. It, like its owner, was the last remnant of a fallen kingship. Of a murdered kingship. A lesser ring, a lesser prince, but the only one now remaining, the rest lost that bloody night eight years ago with the start of his father's war. A ring worn through hardship, through eight years of running, of being hunted, of survival and battle and a war of desperate attrition in the northern forests. A ring for a prince who had fought for his people to the last, the very last, a ring that only now sat in Madadrian's hand because that prince had fallen for them, and been brought before his enemies in chains.
A ring, perhaps, of a kingship earned, rather than handed down from a father long since corrupted and lost to his people's needs. A ring of a prince deserving, more than some puppet king, there only by virtue of his blood.
A ring of a better king than he, perhaps?
For a moment, he stared at it. While the echoes of his court's mockery of a fallen prince died slowly around him. While the image of that proud figure, feet bound to deny him even the dignity of walking before this court that wanted his death, settled in his mind. While the surge of raw revulsion, not for the man, but for his treatment, ebbed uneasily in his chest. For a moment, while he fought for some semblance of calm, of rationality, Madadrian stared at that ring, sitting mute and accusing in his palm.
Then, very gently, he closed his hand around it. Very gently, he curled his hand, soft and prematurely aged, into a protective fist, around that shattered kingship.
He was not his father. He was not Mad King Adrian, whose hatred had torn apart a kingdom, slaughtered a royal family, hunted the desperate remnants through eight years of a war that crippled not only his supposed enemies, but his own people, his own kingdom, now desperately balanced between two inimical and greedy powers. He was not his father, whose hatred had done that.
He was a puppet king, playing games between empires and kingdoms, tugged into place by foreign generals and the sly, sneering demands of his own court, oblivious as they maneuvered themselves further and further into ruin. He was a puppet king with a shining, ceremonial crown, and rings that bore no wounds nor signs of wear. He was a puppet king, whose blood bought him a dubious kingship without ever having to be shed.
He was a puppet king. But he did not have to be.
And the first thing, he thought, the first thing he should fix, of this ruin his father had made, was the mockery of a fallen prince, and the indignity of a death, a murder eight years belated, about to be met in chains.
Slowly, carefully, with another prince's ring tucked gently in his hand, Madadrian reached up. Southwark's king, no matter what his court might think, no matter the wishes of foreign power, he reached up, and lifted the shining circlet from his head. He looked at it, for a long minute, this pampered, ceremonial, useless thing. This thing that meant nothing, until he had his kingdom back, until he'd fought it free of the ruin his father had sent it to. He looked at his crown, in the one hand, and the ring, in the other.
And then, with an odd feeling of hilarity, he stood, dropping the crown behind him, and went to find a prince he owed, at the very least, the return of his ring.
A/N: Random factlet, but in my head the green stone in the signet ring is nephrite jade. Which, according to yourgemologist.com is one of the toughest, most durable stones out there. *grins faintly* Occasionally, I like looking up gems and jewels. Also? It took me forever to remember that the technique for creating metalwork patterns with wire was called filigree. Heh.
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